


king of the table

by oh_simone



Series: just off campus, ten minutes on foot [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Gen, Slice of Life, everyone drinks coffee and eats pastries, no one is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Yancy Becket, war veteran, baker, proprietor of Becket's Bakery, and all around decent guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	king of the table

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [餐桌之王](https://archiveofourown.org/works/972721) by [dummybunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dummybunny/pseuds/dummybunny)



> This is what I started writing after finishing up Stormy Monday, mostly to cheer myself up. It is the first of a series.  
> I'm afraid I've never worked in a cafe or a bakery, nor am I an amputee, and reading people's testimonies online can sometimes be hit or miss, so if I've gotten something spectacularly wrong, that's probably why. If anything is particularly grievous, please feel free to call me out on it.  
> Still working out details and timeline, so there may be periodic edits once in a while.

Five o’ clock in the morning, and Yancy wakes to the smell of bread baking, yeasty and thickly warm. The excruciating drag from blissful sleep to agonizing consciousness is a heinous process that Raleigh, a tried and true morning person, will never fully understand, but Yancy has always felt down to his bones. The homey smell of baked goods goes a long way to soothe his soul though, and he only dozes for another five minutes before sitting up in bed, yawning and scratching at his stomach. It takes a few minutes to fumble on his leg prosthetic, but only because his fingers are still clumsy with sleep-- it is a task so routine he can and does do it in utter darkness. Next, he pulls on a pair of cleanish jeans and a white shirt, brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face. He stumbles downstairs where Raleigh is whistling and sliding out tray after tray of golden brown loaves from the oven-- sourdough batards, olive-studded fougasse cut cleverly to look like leaves, dark pumpernickel, braids of raisin cinnamon challah. His brother knocks the back of his hand against his shoulder cheerfully as Yancy squeezes past to his own work station, where bowls of butter and egg whites are waiting next to chocolate chips and sacks of flour. Yancy gets started on his own set of sweet pastries, rolling out buttery dough on automatic, still fighting back yawns, and Raleigh heads upstairs for a shower and nap before class.

At eight, Yancy pops scones into the oven and then heads out to the storefront. He chalks the day’s specials on the blackboard tablet to hang just above the counter, and starts up the espresso machine, pulls the first cup of the day for Raleigh, who’ll need it for the two hour seminar he has in forty minutes.

Outside, it is still quiet, though cars are beginning to zip by in increasing numbers through early morning fog. Bleary eyed pedestrians linger at the bus stop just outside; a few glance hopefully at Yancy as he sets up the cafe tables, but the bus comes then in a groan of exhaust and they all shuffle on like zombies. Lights flip on; the open sign faces outwards-- Becket’s is officially open for business. Raleigh comes hurtling down the stairs, still shrugging into a beaten bomber jacket and shoes untied. Yancy shoves fougasse into his mouth, cup into his hand, and Raleigh manages a muffled sound of gratitude as he hauls himself out after the bus. Shaking his head, Yancy goes to fetch the gougeres from the oven, perfectly risen and smelling of heavenly butter and cheese. He’s leaving them out to cool while stocking the front counter full of their day’s menu: rich pecan rolls with brown sugar glaze, biscotti studded with dried fruits and nuts, two galettes, one with sweet, summer stone fruits, the other a savory tart heavy with heirloom tomatoes and feta cheese, redolent with the scent of basil and olive oil. He also finds plastic cups of a berry panna cotta in the fridge, probably made with the last of the blackberries they’d picked on their last hike. These he sets in last, and saves one for himself for breakfast.

It’s less than ten minutes past opening when his first customer staggers in, rattling off an order for a double-shot espresso and a scone, and a cookie, and what is that smell? Two of those please, thanks. The customer then proceeds to list against the counter, yawning and shoving his glasses up. His sleeve rides up briefly so that Yancy just catches the riotous color of full-sleeve tattoos underneath. He hands the guy his coffee and slides over his bags of pastries, rings him up, and starts on a caffe latte for another customer. Cheung arrives just as he’s sent a perky woman out the door with two loaves of green olive bread and a chai, and he immediately takes over at the register, freeing Yancy to hustle back into the kitchen and pull the last tray of scones out in time. Baked goods cleared, Yancy turns to the soup of the day, a simple chicken soup with parsnips and carrots and celery, sweet onions and fragrant, savory thyme. It was thrown together last night, so really, it just needs to simmer for a few more hours-- he turns it on high heat and sets his timer to check on it in another few minutes before heading out to help with the morning rush.

    “Small vanilla latte, two medium cappuccinos,” Cheung says tersely, and Yancy spends the next fifteen minutes handling the espresso machines while Cheung takes orders and hands out change with his customary cool. The timer for the soup goes off while Yancy’s filling an order, so Cheung leaves him at the front. Yancy hands off the coffee, and is wiping down the errant spills of water and milk with a rag when the door jingles, and a familiar pair crosses the threshold.

    “Maggie May,” Yancy greets, unable and unwilling to stop the smile spreading across his face, “Don’t you look lovely this morning! Posi-tively the bee’s knees!”

    The little girl, dressed impeccably in a dark burgundy dress with an oversized plaid print and a black beret hurtles towards him as he steps out to greet her.

    “Yancy!” She grins, gap-toothed at him. “The toof-fairy came and gave me this!” She waves a dollar in his face, and Yancy glances up at her father, who shrugs. “Can I buy a breakfast today?”

    “Sure can do, babygirl. Why don’t you take a look and see what you’d like?” Yancy enthuses, and gives her a gentle push towards the counter.

    “‘Kay!” Thus managed, Yancy straightens up and grins at her father.

    “Hey, Tendo, exciting morning, huh?”

    The adjunct professor laughs. “Long night, more like. The Tooth Fairy couldn’t get into the room until she fell asleep at one, and then nearly broke his ankle trying to avoid the tripwire she’d jerry-rigged with her shoelaces and tambourine.” He smiles at Yancy a little crookedly, and fishes out his wallet from his blazer. His bowtie today is red, with little silver wrenches printed all over. Yancy thinks it’s adorable, and then coughs to cover the flush that is undoubtedly making its way up his face.

    “We have a nice dark Sumatran today, or did you want to stick with the Java?” he asks, and Tendo appears to think about it briefly.

    “Gimme the Sumatran,” he decides, and then hands over an empty, 2 liter coffee dispenser. Yancy disappears briefly into the back and grabs a full one of the Sumatran, and hands it over the counter. Tendo immediately finagles a cup and pours out a taste, inhaling it with the fervor of a junkie.

    “Beautiful,” Tendo says blissfully, expression mildly transcendent and utterly unaware of Yancy’s spike in heartrate, and sets the dispenser down. “Babydoll, you decided what you want yet?”

    “Nuh-uh,” Maggie says, her expression intently switching between the rolls and the tomato tart. “It looks too good.”

    “Aw, thanks, Mags,” Yancy says.

    “Get both,” Cheung suggests blandly, sliding scones into the display table.

    “Daddy, can I?” Maggie asks breathlessly, and Cheung blithely ignores Yancy’s glare. Thankfully, Tendo laughs easily.

    “With that hole in your mouth, you sure you can eat both?” he teases, and Maggie laughs, an inelegant, honking little sound.

    “Da-ad,” she says, “You’re supposed to eat some too!”

    “I guess a dad’s gotta do what a dad’s gotta do,” Tendo agrees with a chuckle, and forks over payment. “Give the girl what she wants, Becket boy.”

    “Yessir.” Cheung grabs a pecan roll and a slice of the galette out for Yancy to box, before slouching back up to the counter where a few more customers have started accumulating. He directs a pointed, flat look at Yancy before sliding past. Yancy really should fire him, for insouciance, or whatever.

    “The first week of classes going alright?” Yancy asks as he tucks some napkins and forks into the box with the pastries.

    “Everything’s copacetic,” Tendo shrugs. “No one’s welded their shoes to anything yet.”

    “That’s promising?” Yancy says uncertainly.

    “It’s always better to keep your expectations low,” he confesses with a wink. “That way, when nothing implodes, you’re already thrilled.”

    Yancy huffs laughter and shakes his head.

    “All this time, and only now do I learn you’re a cynic.”

    “Pragmatist,” Tendo insists, pushing off the counter. “Alright, Maggie, let’s get you to kindergarten. Say byebye.”

    “Bye, Yancy! Bye Cheung!” Maggie sings out obediently, and then grins her gap-teeth at them again.

    “See you tomorrow,” Yancy calls as they exit. “Enjoy the coffee!” Tendo flashes him a grin and a wave before they disappear around the corner. With a small sigh, Yancy turns back to the coffee machine, only to find Cheung’s unnerving, dead-eyed gaze fixed on him. “...What?”

    Cheung just snorts and shakes his head. “Pathetic,” he says, very quietly and very clearly, and Yancy scowls.

    “You’re fired, Wei, so, so fired.”

    “Whatever. Single shot and medium latte,” Cheung says, and Yancy glares, but gets back to work.

 

    It’s just after noon when Raleigh darkens the entrance to Becket’s. His classmate Mako is right behind, speaking on her phone quietly as they enter.

    “Hey bro, you need me anywhere?” Raleigh comes in for a fistbump, which Yancy provides obligingly.

    “Nah, it’s manageable,” Yancy tells him. “Heading upstairs? You'll need to move the laundry off the couch.”

   “We'll probably stay here; we’re just outlining a presentation for a conference next month, and we haven’t eaten yet.” Raleigh slings his messenger bag onto a corner table and comes to lean over the counter. “You making sandwiches?”

 

    “What do ya want?” Yancy asks, already pulling a loaf of Dutch crunch onto the cutting board.

    “Grilled cheese, with avocado and bacon,” Raleigh says immediately. “And one with grilled onions, no avocado.”

    Yancy throws the sandwiches together and sticks them in the panini press, then gets Cheung to bring out two cups of soup on top of that. He sticks those down at their table, spends a few minutes chatting up Mako and incurring the embarrassed irritation of his younger brother before a new customer finally succeeds in driving him back to his station.

    The afternoon has an extended bump of activity around two-thirty, just as Cheung leaves for his class at three, and his brother Hu takes over. Hu is the total opposite of Cheung, expressive and cheerful, always a ready anecdote or glib phrase on the tip of his tongue. He pokes fun at Cheung’s stone-face, yelps when his brother whips him with a dishrag, and shouts a joyous greeting as the Kaidanovkys stop by for their afternoon pick-me-up. Sasha’s fox-sharp features soften in the face of Hu’s antics, one of the reasons Yancy is so thankful Hu’s class schedule lets him work afternoons, as she orders her customary black coffee. Her husband, a tall, hulking beast of a man, asks for an iced tea in a low, surprisingly gentle tone. The two of them take their drinks and a panna cotta next to the window, where they speak in murmuring tones, bowed towards each other like flowers towards sunlight.

    Around four, Yancy is yawning and drinking his own coffee while Hu charms customers into buying more pastries than they’d thought to. Mako’s father, a dean in one of the engineering departments, stops by to pick her up and ask for a green tea. He’s only been by a couple times, both either in the company of, or joining his daughter, but he is friendly and polite to Yancy, clearly amused by Hu, and is just hilariously unimpressed by Raleigh. As soon as they leave, Raleigh’s rictus smile slips off his face and he sags against the display counter.

    “I’m pretty sure he is planning to murder me and stash my body in five different locations,” he groans into the glass, and Hu pats his head consolingly.

    “You should go do that somewhere else,” Hu tells him sympathetically. “I need to wipe your forehead grease off the glass now.”

    “Raleigh, are you and Mako…?” Yancy asks curiously. His brother splutters and blushes a mottled red. It’s horribly cute. He makes a note to ask more often.

    “What? No! We’re just friends, but,” Raleigh cannot stop the look of utter infatuation that crosses his face as he thinks on his study partner, “she’s so awesome, isn’t she? Smart, funny-”

“Kicked your ass at soccer last week,” Hu interjects. If anything, Raleigh just looks even more besotted at the memory of getting steamrolled in the pick-up game.

“I think she’s my soul mate.” Raleigh finishes, shaking his head, smiling beatifically. Over his head, Hu and Yancy exchange looks, and Hu mouths exaggeratedly, ‘twitterpated’ and flashes him a blinding grin and a thumbs up. Yancy snorts and shakes his head.

    “Okay, Rawls, you should invite her to Sunday dinner sometime. Now go do homework, or come help in the back. You’re scaring off the customers.”

   

    At six, Jin swings by and picks up his brother on his way to play basketball in the park. Yancy shoos them off and mans the counter for the last half hour before Raleigh slouches downstairs to help him close up shop. They flip the sign to ‘closed’, and then Raleigh switches the radio to a classic oldies station, cranking it up as Yancy wipes down the tables and stacks the chairs. In the kitchen, Raleigh throws together the dough for tomorrow’s bread, singing along loudly and badly to The Who and Freddie Mercury. Just as Yancy’s finishing up, there’s a knock on the backdoor, and Herc Hansen greets the two of them. Yancy gives him the last coffee of the day as he packages up the leftover bread for the soup kitchen Herc volunteers at. He chats with Raleigh a bit as he waits, needling him about taking one of the graduate seminars on Asia Pacific security issues Herc is teaching that semester.

    “You can audit,” Herc suggests. “I know it’s outside your area of research, but lord save me from the social scientists,” he groans around a mouthful of coffee. “Usually there’s at least one ROTC or soldier on the GI Bill, but none this round, and I could do with someone who actually has seen theories in practice to ground this course.”

    “Maybe,” Raleigh laughs. “Forward me the syllabus, I’ll see if I can do it.”

    “Please do,” Herc says fervently. “You can also meet my son.”

    “Chuck?” Yancy interjects, smiling. “Is he starting this year?”

    “Just wrapped up freshman orientation,” Herc admits proudly.

    “And he’s taking your seminar?” Raleigh asks, brows furrowed, and Herc just shrugs.

    “Won’t take no for an answer. Insists on taking it for a grade, too. Ah well. It’s how he learned to swim you know, getting tossed into the deep end. He’ll be fine,” the professor laughs, and Raleigh’s expression says exactly how glad he is Herc Hansen is not his dad. Yancy suspects his own looks about the same.

   

    For dinner, Yancy cubes up the rest of a loaf left over from the sandwich station and toasts the cubes with olive oil and rosemary until they are dry and crunchy at the edges. He slices the tomatoes, tears up a few leaves of fresh basil, and cuts the soft mozzarella into strips, then tosses everything together with salt, pepper, and olive oil. They eat bread salad and chicken soup in their kitchen upstairs before Raleigh heads into the shower and Yancy settles in at the kitchen table to go over the numbers for the day. By the time he’s finished, his brother has sacked out, dead to the world; he hasn’t even closed the door to his room. Yancy rubs at the tight muscles of his thigh, and sighing, goes to Raleigh’s bedside. He pulls the comforter over Raleigh’s shoulders before closing the door of his room. In the bathroom, he removes his prosthesis and sets his bench into the tub to shower quickly, just long enough to get some of the smell of coffee and yeast from his hair. The heavy aroma will never really be gone, but still it's a damn sight better than blood and gunpowder.

    It is ten when he lies down in bed with his tablet, scrolling idly through the headlines. In another twenty minutes, he’ll be asleep, the tablet corner digging into his collarbone. Seven hours later, his alarm will sound and he will wake once more to bread and coffee and friends and strangers. He will crack countless eggs, cream pounds of butter and sugar at a time, sing along to whatever Top 40s drivel is on the radio. He will find himself alternately charming and tongue-tied around the Chois, groan at Hu’s horrible puns. His brother will sling out loaves of crusty, decadent bread and maybe burn his knuckle on the oven, make a fool of himself over the lovely Miss Mori; it is something Yancy always looks forward to.

But for now, Yancy Becket sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is the bread of my internet life, and constructive criticism is accepted!


End file.
